


Towel

by virginholmes



Series: House-hold Items [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5 times/1 time, Gen, House-hold Items, M/M, Sexual innuendos, Towel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:17:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virginholmes/pseuds/virginholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times Sherlock forgot his towel, 1 time John forgot his.<br/>Awkwardness may ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Hey,  
> Wooo. This is my third fic in the House-hold Items series. This will be a chaptered one, following loosely the 5 times/1 time prompt/thing. But it's not for a prompt or anything.  
> This fic's word was chosen by my friend Sally, when we were in maths together, murdering our brains. She said something along the lines of white linen. So the towel was born!  
> I hope you enjoy x

John knew he shouldn’t have got up that morning, he knew he shouldn’t have left his room until at least eleven am and he _definitely_ knew that he shouldn’t have answered his flatmate’s call from downstairs.

After losing spectacularly in a fight with his bedding, he managed to wrench his door open and follow the source of Sherlock’s continuous shouting to the main bathroom.

Deciding on about two dozen other doors he would rather be opening, he tentatively pulled it open, only to be met with a very strong force pulling it back shut.

John stood back sighed. “Sherlock, if you want me to help you with whatever it is, then you need to open the door.”

He could practically _hear_ Sherlock roll his eyes. “Obviously John, I am in a rather inconvenient state, just having had a shower and this _delicate_ matter at least, does not require the need for you to view me in said current state.”

John threw his hands up in the universal ‘surrender’ gesture, more to himself than his flatmate. However he knew the man would have a shrewd guess at his reaction.

Deciding to make Sherlock feel even more uncomfortable, he went for the mocking approach.

“Did you want mommy to turn the taps off for you Sherlock? Don’t want the hot water to touch poor Sherly?”

He could hear Sherlock moving about the bathroom, and he was pretty sure he was trying to find a murder weapon that miraculously works through solid walls.

“John Watson, you are more infuriating than you could ever imagine. In answer to your ridiculous question, no, I do not want you to turn the taps off for me as they are already off, I would like you to very kindly fetch me my towel.”

John shook his head “So what you’re saying is that you are in an _inconvenient state_ because you couldn’t be stuffed getting it before you went in the shower?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself John; you know how it infuriates me. Yes, my towel is absent from the bathroom.” Sherlock huffed.

“Where is it?” John enquired.

“On the couch” Sherlock answered quickly.

John stood still near the entrance to the main room “What was it doing there, Sherlock?”

“I uh- was cleaning up something.” Sherlock said very slowly.

John turned around very quickly and strode back within arm’s length of the bathroom door. “What were you cleaning up exactly?”

John could almost feel the heat radiating off the detective through the door when he asked that question.

“A mess I may have… made. That’s enough of the inquiry, just go and get it now… please.”

John walked away as quickly as he could towards the kitchen and the main room. He spotted the piece of white linen lying in the middle of the couch. He swooped down and picked it up; trying very hard to ignore the faded stain it was previously covering.

Thankfully, the towel seemed to be quite clean, only a small patch was …stained. It seemed Sherlock used it to mop up any remaining moisture left from cleaning up the ‘mess’.

He approached the bathroom door with caution with his arm outstretched to knock but before he could make contact with the door, it opened on a slightly larger angle than before, revealing a topless Sherlock Holmes.

John saw and stood quite still, staring at the very exposed Sherlock.

 It was a few seconds before Sherlock cleared his throat “Thankyou John, I’ll take the towel now.”

John was still staring “Uh- huh.”

Daring to reach a little further than necessary, Sherlock made a grab for the towel but missed spectacularly and smacked the high-point of his cheekbones into the door frame he as he rose, hanging on the door for balance.

The collision seemed to awaken John from his staring and moved forward with a start, only to clash head-first into a face-clutching Sherlock.

“Shit!”

“John!”

John stood up first, one hand to his head and the other held out to reassure Sherlock.

“Sorry, sorry. Here you go.”

He stiffly tried to lengthen the outstretched hand.

“Thank you.” Sherlock said gruffly and disappeared back into the bathroom. John only made a few steps back towards his bedroom before coming to rest against a wall, placing his head back and letting out a heavy breath.

********

By the time Sherlock had fully emerged from the bathroom, in a more convenient state, John had had two cups of tea, toast with jam and had circled all the possible murders in the newspaper.

Sherlock entered the living room absorbed in his phone. How the man managed to accurately seat himself on the couch without even the slightest glance at the target amazed John no-end.

“Anything interesting today?” John broke the awkward silence with.

Sherlock barely looked up as he answered “Nothing more than a few open and shut domestics, not worth my time of course, Lestrade thinks they are as-“

He was cut off by John, who said: “But, Sherlock there _is_ something interesting isn’t there?” John mentally slapped himself. _‘What a perfect way to bring it up mate, good job’_ he thought sarcastically.

Sherlock did look up this time. “What do you mean?”

Apparently, it was the perfect time to collect the breakfast dishes. John scooped them up and made his way to the kitchen before answering.

He began tentatively “Um, you know, um, the towel.” He regathered himself. “What I mean to say is, care to explain why your towel was not in the bathroom today?”

Sherlock’s fierce gaze met his shy one. “I told you earlier. I had used it to clean up a rather unfortunate mess.”

“That you made on the couch.” John added.

The man on the couch rolled his eyes. “Yes, John. I did. I made a mess on the couch.”

“So… you were on couch and you made a mess?”

“Oh for god’s sake John! Yes! I spoilt the couch. No need to be so immature about it all.” Sherlock looked back down at his phone, ignoring a stuttering John.

“I’m- I’m not being immature about it. I was just curious. What mess could you have possibly made on the couch that obviously wasn’t an experiment? Because you would have had to break two flatmate rules; no experiments other than in the kitchen or your own bedroom and no mas-"

“John! If you must know, after our little disagreement the other day about that vile drink-"

“What? Orange juice?” John asked quickly.

“Yes that.”

“And what?"

Sherlock stood up, brushed his suit coat and walked over to the door. “I tried some last night, on the couch. It was so horrid, disgusting and sweet that I spat it out all over the fabric.”

John started laughing, hard. Between gasps of breath he said: “Whilst I applaud you for trying it. Try not to spill it next time; you know what it does to the material.”

Even Sherlock cracked a smile at that.

“Yes mummy Hudson would be most upset.”


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, Sherlock uses his towel for his experiments.  
> Neither of them like the outcome.  
> Obviously.

(11:35am)

**_John, please bring a towel to bathroom door –SH_ **

(11:35am)

**_You take your phone in the bathroom?_ **

(11:36am)

**_Irrelevant. Towel, now… please? –SH_ **

(11.37am)

**_Hah. Nice try :) What did you do with it this time?_ **

(11.37am)

**_Experiment –SH_ **

(11:38am)

**_Not good enough. You need to use the cleaning stuff I bought especially for your ‘experiments’._ **

(11:38am)

**_And yes. Quotation marks were needed._ **

(11:39am)

**_John. I am very cold. Please bring a towel now. (Preferably not yours) –SH_ **

(11:41am)

**_Get back in the shower then._ **

(11:42am)

**_Surely you can walk the five paces to the bathroom door accompanied by a piece of white fabric? –SH_ **

(11:43am)

**_What do you mean the 5 paces to the door? I’m out, getting the necessities of life and all that._ **

(11:44am)

**_I didn’t know you had gone out –SH_ **

(11:45am)

**_Obviously. I’ll be home in 10 min._ **

(1:45am)

**_Make it five –SH_ **

********

John Watson crossed the threshold of 221B Baker Street seven minutes later, clutching two large grocery bags which he dumped unceremoniously on the kitchen bench. He walked briskly over to the linen cupboard and cursed silently when the only available linen was a tea-towel.

Moving silently, so that a certain nosy flatmate wouldn’t hear any more than he had to, he slid upstairs to his bedroom.

At least he and Sherlock had one thing in common; they didn’t want each other using each other’s towels. His sister had screamed at him once when he used hers. She said ‘it was like using someone else’s dirty underwear’. He had been scarred for life ever since. However, since the alternative was Sherlock using a most likely toxic version, he decided that he could suck it up… and so could Sherlock.

He knocked on the bathroom door and smiled when he heard its occupant jump with surprise.

“Oi Sherlock, open up.”

The door opened slightly and he could just see Sherlock’s face peer slightly through the crack, his wet curls plastered to his face.

Sherlock huffed. “Don’t you order me around; you took your time getting here.”

John sighed as he handed his flatmate the towel, and barely suppressed a smirk when he saw his eyebrows crease at his colour choice.

“I asked for white... and it smells funny.” He took the towel to his nose and smelt it, raising his eyebrows as he did.

“It was the only available towel.” (Technically, it was). “And besides, I tried as hard as I could and I even got here before ten minutes.”

“I said five.” Sherlock exclaimed, trying the close the bathroom door on John’s foot.

“Just because you have warp drive built into that mind of yours doesn’t mean we all do.” John returned.

A smile broke through Sherlock’s face.

“Touché.”

John removed his foot and pushed the door onto to Sherlock, who closed it with a snap.

“Just get dry. I do _not_ want to meet sick Sherlock Holmes a moment too soon.” John said, as he walked into the living room. He heard a muffled response from his flatmate but couldn’t hear it. He imagined it contained more than a few scathing remarks.

********

Two minutes was all it took for Sherlock to discover why the towel was brown… and smelt funny.

“JOHN!”

John chuckled and made his way back to the bathroom door.

“Yes Sherlock?” He said ever-so-sweetly.

The bathroom door opened with a bang as an angry (and thankfully dressed) Sherlock made his way out. He was holding out John’s towel.

“What is this?” He asked roughly

John tried to hide a smirk. “A towel.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes “Yes _thankyou_ professor Einstein.” He snarled. He shoved it into John’s chest, making the doctor step back from the force.

“Care to explain why you gave it to me?”

It was John’s turn to roll his eyes. “Um, because you asked for it?” He said sarcastically.

“Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you. Why did you give me _your_ towel? You knew I didn’t want it and I thought you _hated_ other people using your towel, saying so yourself when you first moved in.” Sherlock made his way to the kitchen, followed closely by John, who was still clutching his towel to his chest, his nose just inches from it.

“I’m flattered you remember my towel preferences. I gave it to you because we have no fresh linen available.”

Sherlock turned sharply and raised his arms to speak, accomanied by an offended stare.

"Don’t give me that look! I was _not_ going out to buy you one specially. My towel would suffice for one time. I used it last night, so it was dry and _not_ covered chemicals like a certain someone’s.” John responded hotly. He chucked the towel onto the nearest surface – a coffee table and moved towards Sherlock, who wisely took a step back.

“Do your own laundry next time and don’t use your towel for your experiments!” John concluded. He turned and walked back upstairs to his bedroom, slamming the door as he went.

Sherlock huffed silently and moved to collect the towel. He ran the fabric through his fingers, letting the supple material flow between them. He swung it a few times, catching the end with his right hand and brought it up to his nose, inhaling deeply. The response made him smile slightly.

Sherlock followed John and made his way up the stairs, coming within close contact to John’s door.

He crouched down in a squatting position and flattened the towel, slipping in the end as far as he could under the door, until he met too much resistance from the grey carpet on the other side.

He stood up and smiled slightly when he heard the bed creak slightly when its occupant had seen what he had done.

Sherlock bowed majestically to the door before making his way back to his experiments, leaving a smiling John in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. Sherlock may have a towel fetish... or is it just a John fetish?


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This wasn't the first time John had woken up with Sherlock in his bed."

This wasn’t the first time John had woken up with Sherlock in his bed.

Sometimes after cases, when both parties were completely gone from over-tiredness, John would go up to bed and Sherlock would follow, both collapsing onto the sunken mattress, both too tired to realise what it looked like.

The time with Mrs Hudson was bad enough.

Other times, when Sherlock would ‘treat’ himself, John would assume the doctor role and keep his friend under a very vigilant eye, soothing the nightmares and the hallucinations that would be awoken with the poison flowing freely through his bloodstream.

John stretched luxuriously in the bed, barely awake and refusing to let in the harsh London sunlight that was knocking on his eyelids, his back was facing the rest of the bed and he remained in a state of peaceful stupor. Sherlock’s unique scent met his olfactory nerves, inhaling deeply and smiling, finally letting the sun penetrate his vision, pupils shrinking in response.

“Rough one last night?” His voice broke the peaceful silence, scraping along the woody grain of it with his deep but light-hearted baritone.

No response. John slowly rolled towards what he thought was a surprisingly dormant Sherlock; instead he was faced with empty air… and a towel.

“Wha-?”

He rolled over further grunting with pain as he put pressure on his ribs, within arm’s reach of the towel, he brought it up to his nose, detecting what he had smelt earlier.

This was Sherlock’s towel.

John closed his eyes; the memories from last night’s case were flooding his brain.

**Twelve hours earlier:**

“Come on John! We’re losing him!”

John tucked his head down and powered his arms, urging his legs to push harder, to climb the street in wake of that billowing coat.

Just above Sherlock’s darkened silhouette was another, harsher figure, leaping and bounding over obstacles, trying to avoid his pursuers.

All too soon he realised he rounded the familiar corner that lead into Baker Street.

Oh how _hated_ when the bloody criminals knew their home address.

Sure enough, up ahead the criminal burst through 221’s door, followed closely by Sherlock and then by himself.

Shouting a quick apology to the invisible but sure-as-hell worried Mrs Hudson, he raced up the stairs and stumbled upon a frightening but an all-too-frequent scene: the stupid mad-man pulling a gun on Sherlock.

John’s pulse quickened as he leapt in soldier mode, stealthily creeping around the back of Sherlock, finding a better angle.

Thankfully, Sherlock took his movements in recognition of a ‘safety net’, and an invitation play the smart-ass.

“So David the quiet little secretary, were you hoping to make an impression on your boss? Bit mundane isn’t, for an ex naval officer?

‘David’ leered at Sherlock and using a sharp voice that made John’s hair stand on end he said: “You and I both know that it was much more complicated than that.”

Sherlock gestured towards the man and in a mocking tone; he said “Please, do explain.”

David copied Sherlock’s gesture and threw back “How about you? You make it seem so much more _interesting_ ”.

John shifted slightly, uncomfortable with the tone the man was using. Sherlock however looked right at home. He paced leisurely in front of the couch, hands clasped loosely behind his back, shoulders high and cheekbones prominent.

“Your stint in the navy was short lived but high ranked. You peaked as a Commander but were relieved due to unhealthy relations with another officer. Greyson and Gordon took you in as their secretary because they knew you could be trusted in high-stress situations, which included fraud, illegal trades and other heinous crimes.”

Sherlock snorted, he was still pacing the living room looking thoroughly delighted with the situation. David still looked just as amused, but with a glint of determination in his eyes. John was still on his toes, waiting for the inevitable time when he would have to resort to action, much to his displeasure.

Sherlock was still rambling on about affairs and murders and other stuff. Usually John would love to listen to the man’s deductions but he was too busy focusing on David.

David was looking at Sherlock with a sense of hunger, he was slowly advancing towards the man, stalking his prey.

John tensed and shuffled his foot slightly, wanting to send Sherlock a silent distress signal. However the consulting detective was too busy unravelling the case.

David and Sherlock were literally dancing around each other, each step was in time with an imaginary beat.

John was tense, he was worried, he was nervous but he certainly not jealous.

No, this angst was for the case… right? It was his natural instinct to protect Sherlock… right?

John tuned back into the conversation just as Sherlock was coming to the crescendo on a double homicide, filled with passion, lust and more fraud.

David too was looking straight into Sherlock’s eyes, the small coffee table the only space between them.

John saw the quiver of David’s left arm retract towards that back of his dusty denim jeans. He also saw his knees soften into a slight bend. John knew this stance himself, as he was in the same position.

Sherlock did see John’s slight change in height, making brief eye contact with him.

David clapped slowly.

“Well done. Not many of those daft Yarders could do that.”

Sherlock was nodding in smug agreement when David lunged.

He pushed Sherlock roughly into the couch, roughly connecting the back of his neck to the top of the couch.

John sprang into action, leaping over the coffee table, to meet the back of David. He implored copious amounts of strength to pull the man of Sherlock, who was struggling under David’s weight.

Managing the pry the attacker of Sherlock, he spun him around and placed a swift punch to his nose, feeling it break under impact.

John could feel Sherlock moving around behind him, however he couldn’t see due to the large mass in front of him, struggling to gain control.

John grunted with pain as he felt David’s knee plunge deeply into his stomach, he fell back hard on to the ground below. An audible groan could be heard coming from the doctor’s mouth.

All of a sudden David was lifted from him. John scrambled to his feet and turned to face the most astonishing scene. Sherlock was trying to strangle the man with a towel, he had it wrapped around the man’s neck. When he was satisfied with the lack of struggle from David, he loosened it slightly and in a swift movement, encased his wrists in it instead, leaving a choking David pulling against the restraints.

John made his way over to the pair, clutching at his ribs, he tenderly felt among them. Yep, his left side was going to be bruised tomorrow.

Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall, belonging to Lestrade and a few of his officers.

 DI Lestrade nodded to John and made his way over to Sherlock and David, who was recovering from his near death-by-towel incident.

As usual, Sherlock quickly explained who they were looking at with his normal bravado.

They quickly took David away, with a ‘good evening’ from Lestrade.

John sank softly into his favourite arm-chair, but quickly rose to wrestle the towel Sherlock was still holding (more like trying to rip to shreds) from his grip.

He turned to face his chair again but soon realised that if he sat down again, he wouldn’t get up. So he decided to call it a night.

“I’m going to turn in, Sherlock. Is that ok? …Are you ok?”

Sherlock nodded and shooed him away.

“I’m fine John, its fine. I’ll call you if anything happens.”

John still looked apprehensive, but was so tired that he just nodded and started to make his way up the stairs towards his bedroom.

Sherlock noticed John still had his towel in hand and went to call him back. But the way John was already cradling it to his chest made him stop. He just smiled and flung himself onto the couch, to wait the night away.

********

With last night’s case cascading back into plain view, John carefully lifted the covers of his bed and gently manoeuvred onto the carpeted floor.

Opening his door to the flat, he could hear the old bathroom taps running and the audible slap of glass door against plastic frame.

John sighed, turning abruptly back into his room; he fetched the towel from his bed and proceeded down the stairs.

He waited, sitting in his favourite arm chair with a hot cup of tea for Sherlock to finish his shower.

When he finally heard the thump of the taps stopping, he went over to the bathroom door and stood their silently, waiting towel in hand.

He heard his flatmate stumbling around the bathroom, obviously looking for his white, soft prize.

The door opened its full length, Sherlock not obviously realising that John was there.

As soon as he realised what he had done, he closed the door halfway, not his usual ‘you have seen more than my cheekbones’ slam.

However, John had had plenty of time to take in the detective’s bare frame, before he closed the door on his bottom half.

Sherlock smiled and John swallowed.

Sherlock reached out for the towel.

“Thanks John, I forgot it was in your room.”

John regained his sanity and said “You knew it was in my room?”

Sherlock nodded, “Yes, after last night’s case you took it up with you but were so tired I didn’t bother stopping you.”

“Well thanks for not stopping me, I was pretty out of it.” John laughed.

Sherlock laughed too, and their eyes met briefly.

They held this for a while, many unspoken things were shared between the detective and the doctor.

John was the first to look away, much to his displeasure.

Sherlock took the towel and headed back into the bathroom and John walked back into the living room with a small smile on his face.

He could picture one on Sherlock’s face too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh la la, anybody order a side order of subtlety? I did, because it's delicious.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you get when you cross a drunk Sherlock and an unsuspecting Mycroft?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just letting you know that this isn't britpicked or beta'd, so if you see any mistakes in any of my work, please let me know!  
> -Ruby

**_Government coming over 17:00, with new federal, fair warning advised. –A_ **

The text rang though Baker Street as a shrill alarm, waking Sherlock, who was slumped in a stupor over his microscope.

He fumbled over the kitchen bench until he reached his phone, blindly swiping at the screen to read the text.

Obviously, the number was blocked but Sherlock quickly worked out the sender was Mycroft’s assistant ‘Anthea’ (or whatever pseudonym she went under these days).

However, what wasn’t obvious was the alert. ‘Anthea’ had never tipped off her boss’s brother, and she generally presented to be in favour of the elder Holmes.

With this in mind, Sherlock gathered up his coat and scarf and made his way out into the rare London sunshine, with a sly grin on his face.

********

John Watson woke to the sound of silence in his upstairs bedroom at 221B. No bustling Sherlock, no murderers and no gunshots. It was a welcome surprise.

He went downstairs in search of food but found none, silently cursing to himself as he grabbed a short brown jacket and headed for the local supermarket on foot.

Half-way through John’s journey, he passed a rather noisy pub, surprised to see it open so early, and so busy at that.

He stood looking through the window when he saw a tall figure, with likeness of that of his flatmate pass by the window, drinking heavily from a bottle.

John stared incredulously at the man’s figure, before deciding it was just another morning drunk and continued his brisk walk.

Laden with shopping bags, John walked past the pub again, which was now empty.

Intrigued, he peered into the window again and saw the chairs neatly stacked and no remnants of any alcohol, expect for the bottles lined orderly behind the bar.

Shaking his head, he continued on back to Baker Street.

Within about 10ft of his front door, he saw Sherlock approach it ahead of him, he swung it open rather forcefully and stumbled inside.

John quickly hurried after him, he pulled open the door and flung himself up the 17 stairs to home.

He opened the door, bracing himself for the worst.

Inside, Sherlock was practically dancing around the furniture, holding a copious amount of random objects, including a bucket, rope, a small plank of wood and a drill.

The detective noticed his doctor and paused, the bucket swaying limply on the crook of his elbow.

“Good evening, good morrow, good morning! Mam, madam, sir, Joan, John! Good morning John! Oh how are you feeling? That’s good. Got lots to do!”

John barely contained his laughter.

“Uh, Sherlock, are you… drunk?”

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically.

“Good deduction John. Did you observe my behaviour? Or was it the numerous amounts of objects I am yielding?”

And as to prove his point, he span around the living room, arms held out wide. It strongly reminded John of Julie Andrew’s in the Sound of Music. The image of Sherlock Holmes standing a-top of mountain wearing a nun’s outfit was enough to send any man over the edge, especially a man who lived with said man.

John shook his head, full of disbelief. As far as he knew, Sherlock didn’t drink… except under extreme circumstances.

“No, it was the time of day and lack of national security scare.” John replied.

Sherlock walked over to flatmate and grabbed his shoulders, forcing a very tense John to take a step back.

“Oh but John!” He began enthusiastically, shaking the doctor’s shoulders fiercely. “Who says this wasn’t a national security scare?”

Sherlock let his flatmate go, using his long arms to sweep across the room.

John was doing a lot of head shaking.

“What’s the national scare, Sherlock?”

Sherlock spun abruptly to face him.

“Mycroft” he said simply.

“Mycroft? What the bloody hell does Mycroft have to do with this?” John asked incredulously.

Sherlock pulled (John believes ‘whipped dramatically’ is more accurate) his phone out of his pocket. He tapped on it for a moment, hands shaking slightly, and extended his arm to show John the screen.

“Is the ‘A’, Anthea? The girl Mycroft works for?”

Sherlock looked smug “Yes I believe so, it appears my brother is coming round for tea.”

“Why did she warn you? Isn’t she usually Mycroft-sided?”

Sherlock perched himself onto his favourite armchair, hands clasped together under his chin.

“Yes she is, but that is not important, how were going to greet my brother is the more pressing issue.”

“Right, okay. You work on that.” John took off for the kitchen, Sherlock walking at his heels.

“But John, don’t you understand the advantage we have?”

John turned to face his flatmate, a look of bewilderment masking his usual demeanour.

“What I don’t understand is you. Getting drunk, when you have clearly stated many times you detest alcohol as it _slows the mind_. How is being off your face going to help with ‘greeting’ your brother?”

John had slowly manoeuvred himself into Sherlock’s personal space. However the detective did not look deterred by this.

Sherlock simply looked amused and answered John with his usual ‘you’re an idiot’ air.

“Alcohol can provide one with a level of  _enthusiastic_ energy and with this energy comes new ideas. In light of Anthea’s warning, I decided to take full advantage”

At this, Sherlock retreated back into the living room, picking up his various objects along the way.

John abandoned his cup of tea and curiously followed Sherlock.

In the back of John’s mind, he had a feeling he should know what Sherlock was up to. He had seen this type of ‘greeting’ before (varied slightly of course) but it was while since he had seen it.

As soon as Sherlock lifted the bucket into the air experimentally, he gasped, the memory of Will Jenkins from his old secondary school came crawling back into his mind rather abruptly.

Sherlock wheeled around to face him, swaying slightly but smiling in his ‘proud you’re not totally useless’ way.

“Yes, you have figured it out. Good job John, now will you help me? This bucket needs to be at the perfect angle.”

John smiled rather broadly before supporting Sherlock as he climbed onto a small step ladder.

********

At precisely 17 hundred hours, a sleek black car pulled up smoothly to the curb bordering 221B.

Mycroft Holmes stepped out with the assistance of his driver, who had opened the door perfectly for him.

File in hand, he walked to the door of 221B and crisply knocked.

Mr Hudson greeted Mycroft slightly less cheerful than usual, she looked…worried. Mycroft regarded as the first sign of something unusual, because even when Mrs Hudson is having trouble with the wife in Doncaster, she always greets the elder Holmes with a large smile.

He cautiously made his way up the staircase, ears and eyes straining to detect anything out of the ordinary.

As he reached the top, he paused, looking to the top of the door frame, where there was an oddly shaped shadow perched above, but too dim to make out.

The British Government shook himself, telling himself firmly that his bother and the good doctor did not know he was coming; it was just a hidden experiment… or something.

It was when he turned the door handle he knew that he was very wrong about that.

It didn’t turn as smoothly as it should have, like it was holding more force than usual.

It was when the door was halfway open did he feel the explosion of cold water hit the top of his head and cascade down his neck and cover his eyes.

When it settled, he could hear his brother giggling shrilly, dancing around in glee at his brother’s ‘mishap’.

That John Watson was laughing as well, not as much as his companion but clutching his stomach all the same.

“SHERLOCK.”

Furiously wiping the remaining water out of his eyes, Mycroft stormed into the flat, seething.

The younger Holmes could barely get a breath in, for the laughter wracking his body didn’t look like ceasing at any time.

John however, stood tall, recovering just long enough to say “So you have a case for us Mycroft?" before dissolving into another fit of laughter.

The two flatmates walked disjointedly towards each other before sinking onto the ground.

If Mycroft wasn’t drenched he would be bringing out the ‘happy announcement’ speech again.

“Can one of you _vultures_ get me a towel?”

Neither Sherlock nor John heard him, for they were still rolling around the floor laughing.

Mycroft tried to ignore the fact that the two had their noses pressed together and their smiles pulsed into one another.

He walked briskly towards where he knew the bathroom was, leaving wet footprints behind. Eyeing a gap in the wall, he turned a doorknob that protruded out from the smooth surface, he gave it a short turn and opened it to two towels, two sets of sheets and some washcloths.

The towels lay alone on their shelf, next to each other.

‘ _How quaint’_ Mycroft thought. He smiled and took the right one, one which was slightly whiter, but had a small circular stain on the edge.

Mycroft smiled to himself. Poor John, having to deal with Sherlock after he sees _this_.

Mycroft walked back into the living, where the two men had recovered slightly and were whispering to one another.

It was time for revenge.

Directly at Sherlock, he exclaimed “Oh Sherlock, I do hope you don’t mind me using your towel."

Mycroft proceeded to towel his hair and pat down the rest of his three piece suit, while Sherlock went for contentment to livid in less than five seconds.

“MYCROFT EDMUND HOLMES, YOU GIVE ME THAT TOWEL THIS INSTANCE”.

John had retreated into the corner, knowing too well how this ‘sibling rivalry’ can erupt into something much more, and that something may just rhyme with ‘saw’.

Mycroft just smiled and continued to dry himself, before stepping cautiously back onto the landing, with a flick of his wrist, he flung the towel back into flat before walking down the stairs.

On the way, he passed a concerned Mrs Hudson, who was apologetic, for she knew what the boys were up but couldn’t face stopping them.

“It is okay Mrs Hudson, thankyou for your concern but I gave Sherlock as good as he gave me”. With that reply, he walked back into the London sunshine and slid into the black car, ignoring the questioning looks his driver gave at his wet suit and hair.

********

“John, we need to burn it.”

“Sherlock, I am _not_ lighting a fire in summer, just so you can burn a perfectly functional towel.

“Functional, _functional_!” Sherlock spat. “It is hardly functional, it has been infected with my- my brother!”

John rolled his eyes, not for the last time that day.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and under his breath he said “I can really believe you’re the younger brother”.

“Shut up” snapped Sherlock, he flung the towel at John who caught it effortlessly.

He raised it and his other hand in the universal ‘surrender’ gesture and said ‘Fine, fine. I’m not burning it- but I will go and get you a new one, as long as you come with me.”

Sherlock huffed but in response he stomped over to the door and held it open for John, who trod carefully over the slippery surface, dodging the left-over puddles on the stairs.

The short trip to the nearest department store passed uneventfully, unless you count Sherlock ‘harassing’ an employee about the thread count.

The two left the store with a bag containing the lushest and whitest towel they could possibly find.

When they got back to flat, without hesitation, Sherlock took off the bathroom to have a shower.

He had barely closed the door before John opened it on him.

Sherlock looked startled but quickly shrugged it off, saying indifferently “John, as much I would appreciate you joining me, our relationship is not-"

John cut him off quickly “No, no it’s- no. I was just bringing you your new towel. You nearly forgot it, _again_.”

Sherlock’s genuine smile light up the room, he said a word of thanks and closed the door with a gentle snap.

John barely made it to the other side of corridor before he slumped against it, running his hands through his hair, a large smile still plastered on his face.

He shook his head and walked back into the living. Sherlock’s ‘spoilt’ towel lying on the floor. He picked up and underneath he saw a manila file.

Turning it over in his hands, he walked back towards the bathroom and bent down. He slid it under the door and as we walked away he could hear the flush of the toilet run through the flat.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for my drunk Sherlock.  
> Sincerely I do. I think I vomited and that's what came out.  
> But it was so much fun writing, and also imagining if that actually happened in the BBC canon.  
> The amount of takes...
> 
> (Oh and anyone who happens know Mycroft's canonical middle name, feel free to drop a line :)


End file.
